


The Failed Education of One Draco Malfoy

by silentexplorer18



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Because I wouldn't allow otherwise, Bookworm Draco Malfoy, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Fake books referenced, Fred Weasley Lives, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interviews, Journals, Late Night Writing, Lesbian Pansy Parkinson, Libraries, Literature, Mild Language, Minor Injuries, Not Romance, Post-war occupations, Secret Messages, Slytherin Reader, Smart Reader, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), Writing, chose not to use archive warnings for a reason, implied marriage, some bickering, typewriters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27004000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentexplorer18/pseuds/silentexplorer18
Summary: Draco discovers a Slytherin girl with some odd reading habits.  Maybe it’s time he finds the library.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Reader, Draco Malfoy/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	1. Quiet Beginnings and Dusty Shelves

You were perched on a pillow on the floor of the common room, the emerald flicker of evening flames illuminating the pages of some forgotten relic of a book that nobody had probably read in the last century. But you did.

Draco gulped, fingertips itching to grab the bundled stack of papers in his robe pocket, brittle sheets delicately wrapped in dragonhide.

He’d arrived late, curfew prowling for the Inquisitorial Squad always pushing him well past when his housemates had fallen asleep. Except for you, who appeared to spend the pre-weekend evening face first in some book or another.

That’s how it always was with you, always a book.

Yet for some horrific reason he wanted to talk to you. And he was terrified you wouldn’t want that.

How had he arrived at this juncture in his life? Sweating at the prospect of speaking to a girl he’d been attempting to understand for months? A girl who, by all intentions, probably wouldn’t care about his conversation in the slightest? Like the great stories she read in dusty, leather bound books, it took time.

It began in First Year.

Most Slytherins possessed an appreciation for traditional things, but you were… different.

You were quiet and tended to keep to yourself. That wasn’t particularly un-Slytherin of you, but it certainly didn’t help people understand the rather bizarre interests that flighted your fancy. Namely, old literature.

Most of your housemates couldn’t be bothered with you, something that appeared to bother neither you nor them. Well,  _ mostly _ .

When Parkinson mentioned it at dinner a few weeks after the sorting ceremony, Draco hadn’t thought much of it. “She reads all these strange books,” she hissed, squinting down the table at you where you sat drinking pumpkin juice, nose tucked in a leather-bound book.

Draco shrugged. “What’s the matter with it?”

Glaring at him, Pansy reached for her goblet, held it like a wine glass, mimicking the high-society women she’d studied, the ones she would one day become. “It’s terrible. The first few weeks we’re supposed to make friends. She surely hasn’t made any.”

“Are you offering?” Goyle asked, digging into a piece of pie.

She upturned her nose. “Hardly.”

And that was that.

Until Fourth Year.

Parkinson had dropped into her seat for breakfast. It was the day after returning for the year, and Draco had hardly given himself time to think of what the year’s woes would bring. Thankfully, she was able to clue him in.

“It’s awful,” she lamented, stabbing a strawberry with her fork. “I’m roomed with that horrid bookworm!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Draco asked, glancing toward your spot at the far end of the table. Somehow you’d claimed it in First Year; nobody bothered to deny it to you since. “At least she’s quiet.”

She rolled her eyes. “She never leaves her room except for class! I’ll never have any time to myself.”

Crabbe chuckled. “Maybe it would do you good to stop shagging everyone in the girls’ dormitory.”

A huff. An irritated glare. Okay, maybe joking wasn’t going to rectify Parkinson’s issue.

“I’m sure you could ask her,” Goyle offered. “She seems fine.”

“She’s probably a loon,” she whispered, “Nose always in a book. Hardly talks to anyone.”

“I’ve only seen her talk with Loony Lovegood.” Crabbe bit into his toast, hoping confirming her opinions would shut Parkinson up.

She gestured toward Crabbe, a delicate movement that didn’t match the frustration in her voice. “See! And I have to room with her for the  _ year _ !”

“Find out what she reads,” Draco insisted. “Then we’ll know what she’s up to.”

After three weeks of classes, Pansy was spilling the latest girl she’d been flirting with, and Draco’s mind snapped back to their earlier conversation.

“Did you ever find out what (Y/L/N) likes to read?”

“Oh,” she shrugged, waving a dismissive hand. “She goes through them so quickly. There was a Burbage I think, then a Eunice, a few Leontines or something of the sort. She said they weren’t Muggle; we wouldn’t still be rooming together if they were. But I don’t know who they are. Anyway, back to Ava. You wouldn’t believe what she said!”

But Draco lost interest after that. Whatever Parkinson had been trying to say slipped past his mind as words like Burbage and Leontines flickered through his mind.

He found them in the library over the weekend. On shelves coated with a thick layer of dust, he found ancient philosophies, texts on politics, memoirs of the first magic users.

At least you were erudite; something he  _ certainly  _ couldn’t say about Parkinson, Crabbe, or Goyle.

He kept an eye on you after that, followed your fingerprints as they trailed the dusty covers. Suddenly, there was a lot more he wanted to read this year other than textbooks. Sometimes he would purposely arrive to class late, just to peek at the title of your latest book. He wanted to understand the knowledge you were cleaving to.

Over summer holiday, Draco found himself perusing his father’s private library, asking about authors well beyond his father’s years. Tired of the pestering, his father unveiled a new room to him. At least, new to  _ him _ .

“This was my father’s old study,” he stated. That curt tone disguising the pang that went through his chest at the sight of the dusty old desk and barren chairs. “Do with the materials as you will.” With a great swoosh, he disappeared down the hall.

Draco hardly came up for air that summer, drowned in swirling scripts and reprinted texts. It nearly took his mother dragging him from the room for any Fifth Year preparations to be made.

But it had led up to this moment, staring at you as the green light painted the high points of your cheeks, dancing against the tips of your lashes. It felt like now or never; like his first time on a broom, he just had to take that faithful step.

“What are you reading?” he asked, voice slicing through the silence. Suddenly his heartbeat was drowning out the cracking of the fire, the distant rumble of rain on the lake’s surface echoing down, down down--

“Junius,” you said, staring at him with surprised eyes.

This was a test. He had to know what to say.

“Seems a bit late for inquisitions into ethereal magic, wouldn’t you say?”

You glanced down, shutting the frayed cover. “Perhaps. I would’ve gone to bed eventually.”

A silence lulled between you, awkward, unnerving.

“I brought you a book.” The words jumped out of him before he had time to consider what he was saying.

You arched a brow as he fetched the brittle pages, holding them out toward her, closer than before, though he couldn’t remember getting closer. “It’s Quantavius. An original.”

He could see the curiosity washing across your face, practically pulling you to the pages. “And how do you know I like Quantavius?”

“I know things,” he shrugged, delight pinging through his chest like confetti before his internal celebration deflated.

You looked away. “I can’t.” Suddenly the book was being pushed back toward him, you were standing uncomfortably, glancing toward the exit.

He tried to stop his face from falling, but it was harder said than done. “Why?”

“I don’t want to owe you, Malfoy.”

His brow furrowed. “Owe me?”

“You’re on the Inquisitorial Squad.” Your eyes burned with challenge, his pulse jumped. “I don’t want to owe you.”

“It’s important that I’m on the Squad,” he shot back. “Someone has to push back against those idiots causing terror.”

You shook your head. He couldn’t blame you; even  _ he  _ couldn’t believe the bullshit he was spouting. “You know that’s wrong.”

“It’s what Professor Umbridge wants,” he argued, chest aching as he knew his chances with you were slipping from his grasp. “It’s what’s right for the school.”

“Sophronia,” you said, waiting for the recognition to pool in his eyes, a recognition that did not come. “Not everything that’s encouraged is right. You still have a lot to learn, Malfoy.”

You vanished up the stairs before he could say another word.

Parkinson was right; you were a bloody nightmare.


	2. Hidden Messages

_ “Sophronia,” you said, waiting for the recognition to pool in his eyes, a recognition that did not come. “Not everything that’s encouraged is right. You still have a lot to learn, Malfoy.” _

_ You vanished up the stairs before he could say another word. _

_ Parkinson was right; you were a bloody nightmare. _

* * *

He'd resigned to hating you after that encounter. With your insufferable intelligence and quiet tendencies, it seemed easy to write you off. But something kept drawing him back to you. He felt like there was something he was missing, some piece to the hidden puzzle of your soul.

Eventually he caved and found it, a miniscule nothing of a book in the farthest corner of the library. _The Artifacts of Reason: Ancient Wizards of the Northern Isles_ by Sophronia.

It took him less than a day to read it, nothing more than a compilation of essays, handwritten, revisions in the margins.

But it told him everything he needed to know.

You were sending him a message. A message he couldn't let himself hear.

Instead, he continued to follow her fingerprints across the dusty shelves, continued to find authors and listen to the words of ancient worlds and not-so-ancient ideas. As summer fell on him yet again, history repeated itself before his very eyes. His home swirled with darkness and urgent tasks. Essays and memoirs were replaced with blueprints and diagrams. Mechanical spells overrode ancient philosophies.

He knew you'd been trying to tell him his position in all of this was wrong. He knew you'd tried protecting him from the consequences of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Or maybe you weren't; maybe you were just infatuated with historical literature. Either way, he recognized the meanings in the writings on the shelves. He knew where you stood. But Sophronia couldn't save him now.

When he settled himself on the train, he watched you pass by, wondering if you'd forgotten all about his failed attempt at flirting. Probably. It didn't matter now, anyway. He had much more pressing things to focus on than a silent nobody like yourself.

But as the weeks wore on, he missed reading books after you. He missed following the missing holes in the farthest library shelves. He missed daydreaming in class about having sophisticated conversations with you, impressing you with his knowledgeable wit. It was the worst he'd been doing in years, copying homework and hoping to Merlin that somehow he'd manage to fix the damned cabinet.

And then he caught you looking. Maybe it was the circles under his eyes or the sickly flush to his face. Perhaps you noticed the way he was no longer chasing your footsteps through the library. Regardless, the look on your face - unreadable but unmistakably directed at him - shook the part of his soul that didn't care about your intentions. He wanted you to understand what was going on. He wanted you to know he'd received your message, that he just couldn't listen to it. That you didn't understand.

There was a book he'd found in his father's study, old but not ancient. It was an author he'd never heard of before, but he'd read it all the same. As he sat unhappily on the floor by the cabinet, he couldn't help thinking about that book. It was about a man, no more than twenty it seemed, working for a grand wizard during the Renaissance. His wife wanted him to create potions to dispel the plague, which was quickly ravaging the muggle and squib populations (the latter of which was much more prominent back then as wizard kind and muggles were more likely to intermingle). A rebellion was quickly forming to help the non-magic beings, one the man was keen on joining. However, the man he worked for, not quite but nearly a king, opposed such an idea. The wizard felt the muggles deserved to suffer, to figure out how to solve the problems on their own. When the man's wife fell ill, the grand wizard made him choose: the rebellion or the love of his life. Chronicling his decision, the book rang with the unsteady voice of a man lost between a dreadful choice.

Draco realized this was his own story.

The next morning, he saw you casting glances his way down the table. He knew he needed to say something.

"Have you read Delias Aetherius?" he asked, catching you off guard on the way down a forgotten hall to the library.

You stopped, pausing in thought for a moment before shaking your head. "I haven't."

He held out the worn copy of the text, a copy that had been tucked into his trunk alongside ink-scribbled parchments and out-of-date manuals. "I read Sophronia. This is my reply." The way you hesitated made him cringe, and he shoved the book into your hands. "Not a favor. No strings attached. Just read it."

Then he disappeared, returning to the cabinet that called his name. He drowned in instructions, beating his hands against forgotten tables and begging the spells to work just this once.

You found him in the library, hunched over what felt like his thousandth attempt at further research.

He jolted as you set the book down in front of him, furrowed forehead hinting that you'd read it before you'd even managed to speak.

"It seems we both have some more learning to do," you whispered.

He smiled, but fatigue left it half-hearted, preventing it from reaching his eyes. "We've learned a lot from each other. I'd love to debate the topics with you someday. Another night. When things are a little better."

"Have you read Chester?"

Shaking his head, he glanced down toward papers that held no clues. "I don't have time to read anymore books right now."

"It's less philosophical." You pushed a book across the table from him, a shiny new cover greeting his weary eyes.

You left him after that, but his eyes couldn't focus on the crumpled papers, continually smearing his inked drawings. Before he called it a night, he reached across the table, pulling the book you'd offered into his lap.

 _A Guide to the Difficult_ by _Chester_. "Sounds Muggle," he mumbled, chuckling at the title. It was a stress self-help book.

As he flipped through the first few pages, he found handwriting scrawled on a blank page.

> Malfoy,
> 
> I can't help with whatever dilemma you're facing, but perhaps this will help you manage your decision.
> 
> Stay safe.
> 
> -(Y/n)

The margins were annotated with your personal suggestions.

He knew this meant something, too. Another message. But fatigue had curled around shoulders, and he was far too exhausted to figure out what you were trying to say.

Instead, he followed your first suggestion, doing a deep breathing exercise for a few minutes before his head hit the pillow. Maybe he was imagining it, but when he woke up the next morning, he already felt a little better.

Just maybe, like Delias Aetherius, he'd live to tell his tale.

And he _did_.

The cabinet was completed. Dumbledore was killed. The world was burning. Potter had vanished. And Draco was _alive_.

But the war wasn't over yet. In fact, it had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this update!  
> Updates are on Wednesdays!


	3. Cells and Escape Routes

_Just maybe, like Delias Aetherius, he’d live to tell his tale._

_And he_ did _._

 _The cabinet was completed. Dumbledore was killed. The world was burning. Potter had vanished. And Draco was_ alive _._

_But the war wasn’t over yet. In fact, it had only just begun._

* * *

Wizards were on the run. Families were in hiding. Pureblood relatives were torn apart trying to protect lives and images. Your family wasn’t spared.

Although you weren’t an active member of the resistance, enough reading had taught you not to support genocidal maniacs. When your uncle, desperate to save his family, advocated for you to get a tattoo, all hell broke loose.

Of course, you refused. Of course, your parents supported you. Who else would have encouraged your peculiar reading habits? Introduced you to Burbage or Chester? Of course, your uncle, ever the dramatist, derived from this that you were the most villainous member of the family, that you’d brainwashed your parents with the horrendous books.

The only solution he saw to protect your parents from you and to save the family’s crumbling image was to report you. Sacrifice the sheep to protect the flock. And that’s exactly what he did.

They came in a whirl of dark cloaks and haunting masks. In hindsight, the stories would probably never do the Death Eater’s unsettling appearances justice. However, that didn’t matter much to you at the time. You were certain to die there, boxed in and threatened with malicious curses. But they _didn’t_ kill you. Instead, they yanked you close, apparating back to a dark, unfortunate looking room. You could still imagine your mother’s screams as they whisked you away. Hopefully, your family would be spared.

There were no books in the cramped room they kept you in. Although it wasn’t particularly pertinent, at least a book would help partially distract you from the residual pain pounding in your chest. The Unforgivables were far from easy to recover from. But a book, the gift of another world, that would have saved you.

Unfortunately, another world would never come.

Questions were asked regarding information about the Order, nothing you knew anything about, of course. Just because you were a _moral_ Slytherin didn’t mean Potter and his merry band of chaos trusted you with any information. But that failed to satisfy the Death Eaters, who threw spells at you until your voice was destroyed by the screams. Only then were they satisfied. For the time being. 

Laying on the dirt floor, you waited for the meager portion of rations that would come shoved through the cell bars. Although food was scarce, it was provided. Life was survivable, undoubtedly because they didn’t want you dead _yet_ , not because they were going to let you live.

You tried to think back to old worlds and ancient civilizations, but the only thing you could come up with was Chester’s stress mantra. Had Malfoy survived? Surely he had. But even you’d heard the rumors about the tattoo; a mark on his soul at what cost?

At first you hadn’t cared for him. Who would? Everyone knew him as a wealthy, obnoxious prick. But you noticed the way books from the shelves you perused would go missing a few days later, the way you’d see Malfoy coming and going from the library with old novels and furrowed brows. You realized he may have been different from what you believed.

Pansy was the first to mention it. In between swipes of her lipstick she asked, “What do you think of Draco?”

“Oh…” What _did_ you think of Draco? “He seems intelligent.” _Apparently_ you thought him to be intelligent.

This appeared to be a correct answer. She curled her lashes, mouth forming an O in the mirror. “He’s been reading those books you like. The old ones.” She made a face; you had to resist rolling your eyes.

“What for?”

She shrugged. “He thinks you’re smart. Don’t screw up.”

This time you did roll your eyes. “Thanks, Parkinson.”

“Pleasure,” she smirked, waltzing out the door.

Thus began what would probably be the most foolish plan you’d ever created. You left him a trail of books, intentional, with messages strewn through each one of the words on the page. He would understand you this way. Either it would satiate his curiosity or encourage him to learn more.

Perhaps it wasn’t as foolish a plan as you’d thought it to be; somehow, it managed to work.

However, Draco actually _speaking_ to you had never been part of the plan. That night in the common room, you hadn’t anticipated talking with him. Especially not about histories and rivalries. Yet somehow, he felt compelled to continue following your trail.

Hopefully he’d managed to stay alive.

What you didn’t know was that he had.

A few floors above, he could hear your screams. Though at the time, he wasn’t aware they were yours. It was so common now, the screaming, the suffering. He felt sick from it. In the months since he’d left Hogwarts, he’d become shaky and weak - even more so than in Hogwarts. Despite dressing regally, he felt anything but, the snake branded to his flesh signifying everything he hated in himself, everything he wished he hadn’t become.

After a week of lackluster results from you, Madam Lestrange was called to coax answers from you. She knew your name, your family. Taunting you with threats against relatives, you screamed, begged, pleaded with her to understand you didn’t know the answers to her questions. The results of your ignorance were burned and scraped across your flesh, blood fusing to your already dirty shirt.

When they brought Luna, you weren’t sure whether to cry or cheer. Her hands immediately worked over your shoulders, whispering some faint wandless healing charms. They did little for your body, for the pain constantly thrumming through it, but it helped soothe the stinging a tad. But that would never counter the curse shattering through your heart as you stared into Draco’s eyes from the other side of the bars.

He darted away as quickly as he could, and you could have sworn your heart made an audible crack. You knew he would be part of the mess if he didn’t find a way to escape with his family, but the thought of him being in on it all this time, letting you suffer, encouraging your suffering. Maybe you couldn’t trust him after all. Maybe his interest had been a farce all along.

But it hadn’t been. Maybe your heart had cracked aloud that day; Draco wouldn’t have known, the sound of his own pain ringing through his ears. He hadn’t known you were there. How long _had_ you been there? What had happened? Who had hurt you? His mind whirled as he walked without thinking, nearly tripping over one of the hall tables. How had he let this happen to you? You, who spent so much time trying to save him from himself, who warned him, who seemed to care somehow.

He couldn’t risk his family’s lives, but he _had_ to find a way to save you.

As with all the best things, that idea came from a book.

It took weeks for him to find it, combing the farthest corners of his hidden stash in a charmed drawer at his bedside. He found the idea in Nephele, stories of the hidden maps and wizards that escaped capture at the hands of barbarians.

Under the guise of strengthening wards, he began forming you an escape route. Slowly, meticulously, frighteningly. Doing what he knew the Dark Lord could kill him for. Yet it appeared to be working. He hoped he could finish it fast enough.

On a day all too gloomy to be celebrating, Draco carried down the daily rations. You looked different from when he’d seen you last, weak and scared with new scrapes and healing wounds. He hoped the time he’d made you suffer would be worth it, that all of this wouldn’t be for nothing.

Each tray was hovered through the bars, dropping at the feet of hopeless prisoners. Yours landed in front of you, masking a book. It was hardly more than twenty pages, barely anything but philosophy with some scribblings in the margins. Regardless, he watched you cling to it with fright and curiosity.

Hopefully, you’d understand.

But you were weak, exhausted, frightened, unsure. You couldn’t see the words on the pages as you had in Hogwarts, couldn’t trust that Malfoy had given you something genuine. It must have been a trap. You knew it had to be.

Thankfully, in a crescendo of screams and broken glass, you’d landed in some safehouse in the middle of nowhere by Harry Potter’s side. The Gryffindors saved you. They’d taken you with them.

You’d made it out alive.


	4. Wordless Days

_ Each tray was hovered through the bars, dropping at the feet of hopeless prisoners. Yours landed in front of you, masking a book. It was hardly more than twenty pages, barely anything but philosophy with some scribblings in the margins. Regardless, he watched you cling to it with fright and curiosity. _

_ Hopefully, you’d understand. _

_ But you were weak, exhausted, frightened, unsure. You couldn’t see the words on the pages as you had in Hogwarts, couldn’t trust that Malfoy had given you something genuine. It must have been a trap. You knew it had to be. _

_ Thankfully, in a crescendo of screams and broken glass, you’d landed in some safehouse in the middle of nowhere by Harry Potter’s side. The Gryffindors saved you. They’d taken you with them. _

_ You’d made it out alive. _

* * *

Despite everything, Draco felt like he could finally breathe for the first time in weeks.

You’d escaped. Thank Merlin, you’d escaped. Even if you hadn’t used his help, you’d managed to get out. All he could do was hope you stayed away.

He couldn’t dream of you forgiving him; surely that would never happen. He didn’t deserve it. But you were free. That was all that mattered.

However, whenever he thought about you relying on Potter and Co., worry pooled in his gut, weighing him down like lead. They  _ had _ gotten themselves caught. But he tried not to think of that, tried to focus on the thought of you alive and safe and well instead.

You may never trust him again, but at least he could trust you. He took deep breaths and counted the first five things he could see, following your book’s instructions, steadying his nerves. You’d stay safe. You had to.

Thankfully, you did. The Gryffindors seemed to have a little more faith in you after the rescue. Maybe the smears of blood across your shirt and the tender way you walked were enough to convince them that you weren’t on Voldemort’s side, that you’d endured enough without their ire. Either way, you were safe.

The first few days, you stayed curled in a chair in the safe house’s parlor, exhausted and numb in the aftermath of Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione was similarly quiet; you’d heard her screams, too. Ordinarily you may have tried offering her comfort, but you were too consumed in your own issues to even attempt it. Everything hurt, and your mind moved like a body dragging through tar.

Eventually, you pulled the book Draco had offered out of your pocket and traced the cracked spine with unsure fingers. Nephele. You’d never read his works before. Maybe it was time to start. You were feeling better, capable of reading. Debating whether or not you wanted to risk devouring the contents of the book, you took a peek at the interior, pages worn and well-used. Could you trust Malfoy? Should you dare read another work he’d given you, especially when it had been provided from outside the bars of a cell?

He’d betrayed you.

But he hadn’t.

It only took a few hours to work through the entire book. You finished, hands shaking and scrambling to close the cover. He’d given you a map. A map to escape your prison. The words were outlined, hinted at in the margins. He’d given you directions. He’d explained how to flee.

He risked his life for you.

But  _ why _ ? Was it his way of repaying you for the book you’d gifted him? Surely not. That wasn’t worth  _ dying  _ over.

Had he understood what you’d been trying to do all along by leading him through the library? Was this his answer to the question you’d been dangling in front of him for years? Surely not. As soon as he realized more about you, read between the words on the pages, he wouldn’t care about you. He couldn’t… could he? He was Draco Malfoy, after all, rife with pomp and circumstance. You, while wonderfully intelligent and lovely in your own way, were hardly anything like Malfoy. How could he find himself caring about your well-being? It seemed impossible, especially given the situation.

But he’d answered your message with one of his own. It was Draco Malfoy, cover to cover. You could see his compassion in the notes on the pages, quill trembling as it outlined information. It was a gift he allowed you to see. Unbeknownst to you, it was a gift he allowed  _ only  _ you to see.

You had half a heart to march in and defend Malfoy against Potter’s verbal bashings from where the trio stood in the kitchen, but you knew it wasn’t the time.

You were in a war. And you needed to prepare.

If someone had asked a year prior if you’d fight against Lord Voldemort, you wouldn’t have had an answer. It had been Draco’s duty, but not yours. Yet here you were, trying not to tremble on the upstairs balcony a few paces from Fred and George Weasley. They looked nervous, nearly as nervous as you.

Maybe you wouldn’t have been if not for the threat that your family would be among those storming the castle in an attempt to kill you, that Draco would be coming to kill you. It took every ounce of your willpower not to think of him, not to become distracted by the worry in your gut. You needed to stay focused. It was the only chance you would have at survival. The spells crackled in the sky like fireworks, and you knew worrying about Draco was pointless. Worrying about him would get you killed.

Thankfully, adrenaline swallowed your thoughts whole.

Every breath was a spell, every movement a silent wish that it wouldn’t be your last. Surprisingly, the twins had your back. If life and death was all it took to foster inter-house relations, maybe the world should have gone to war sooner. Maybe it would’ve prevented your family from being shattered. Maybe it would’ve saved peoples’ lives. Maybe  _ you  _ would have never needed to utter the killing curse. Regardless, it didn’t matter anymore.

You were in your own little world, movements a rush, a push and shove of endurance. Anything to make it through another minute. If someone squinted, they might have thought you were a Gryffindor the way you charged into battle aside the twins.

On the other end of the castle, Draco was anything but. He’d slipped undetected through the castle, slithering like the snake he was through forgotten corridors and once forbidden passages. His options were limitless aside from the ricochet of spells exploding along common halls.

Initially, he’d been trying to find you, hoping he could whisk you away, drag you off with his parents to escape. Mother was thinking France. Father was considering the United States, though he suspected monetary issues would run afoot no matter where they attempted to flee. Draco wanted you to run with them. There was nothing for you to stay for; He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named refused to leave your family unscathed.

However, in his searching, he became distracted. Though you would have argued against him doing it, probably thrown a copy of Thadea at his face, Burbage would argue old habits and ancient prejudices are difficult to destroy. Draco merely proved the theory.

Somehow, though, Potter was a better person than he was. That’s how Draco ended up panting on the floor outside the Room of Requirement, hands shaking, adrenaline flooding his veins as fire licked at the doorway.

He’d nearly died.

It really was a war.

He needed to find you. Immediately.

And he did.

Your lips were parted, panting out curses and lunging sideways to defend the Weasley to your right. Draco would never know which one, not that it mattered anyway. When he could tell you had an opening, he shouted, “(Y/n)! We need to go!”

It startled you from your concentration, wild eyes meeting his frightened ones. “What—” A rumble to your left cut you off, and you saw the way the bricks began to buckle and churn from their spaces. The flash of red beneath it caught your eye, and you moved before you even had time to process what you were doing. “Fred!”

You clattered against him. Someone screamed. Pain soared across your back, flames licking across your spine, down your hips, twisting around your ankle More screaming. It took a moment to realize the sound came from you.

The stones pressed heavy against your back, trapping in your hips, crushing your legs. You hadn’t been fast enough. You couldn’t feel Fred and hoped that meant he was safe. His family would miss him too much if he didn’t survive.

Shoes were rushing toward, a clatter barely audible over the commotion of spellcasting. Suddenly the pain was lessening, the weight on your body becoming lighter.

You could hear Draco’s voice, soft incantations swirling across his tongue. In a rush, he moved the boulders off of you, desperation clawing up his vocal cords, threatening to escape. He swallowed it back, steadying his hands, calming his tone.

“Draco?” you asked, heart jumping at the sound of his voice. Or maybe the ache in your back, your chest, your body. You couldn’t tell anymore.

He knelt beside you, helping you turn slightly despite your wincing. “You’re okay. Things will be okay. I’ll get you out of here—”

“Draco,” you interrupted, shifting your fingers enough to tug on his cloak. He took his hand in yours, surprised at the roughness of your skin, the callouses from cutting fresh quills and charming everything in eyesight. “Please,” you murmured, feeling his hand graze your cheek, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Now?” he asked, eyes tracking your body, looking for what you could possibly need at such an inopportune moment.

Pain ripped through your body as you shook your head. “No,” you whispered, voice soft and tired. It had been so long since you’d rested. “Once all this is over. The war…”

“No.” He pulled his hand from your face, face growing hard. “No fucking wishes. You’re fine. You’re not dying. Everything’s going to be fine—”

“Draco,” you insisted, tugging his hand again.

“Please,” he breathed. “Don’t make me do this. Don’t make it like this. Not now.”

Your breathing was a succession of short breaths, eyelids drooping with fatigue. Maybe you could rest awhile. Maybe things would hurt less then. Maybe you’d wake feeling refreshed. But Draco was here. You needed him to know what you wanted first, what the chase in the library had been all along. “I need you to tell your story. Write it out. That’s all I want.”

“You’re  _ not  _ dying.” His hand fisted in his hair, fear and frustration contorting his features.

“Tell your story?” you urged, more a request for promise than a question.

“Why?”

“I can’t tell mine. Please, tell yours.” You bit your lip, wincing at the pain shooting through your chest. “It’s in the library. You’ll be able to find it.”

“Find what?” he asked, shouting again when your eyes fluttered shut and your lips fell closed, unanswering. “Find  _ what _ ?”

His heart was in his throat. Why now? Why here? Why you? You didn’t deserve any of it. You never deserved any of the suffering you’d endured. Brushing his fingers over your cheek, his heart made an audible shatter, crackling through the air around him like a magnificent chandelier fracturing on the earth. Only it wasn’t his heart; it was a curse.

Ginger flashed in his periphery before a twin—Merlin only knows which—pushed him behind the pile of rubble. “Move, Malfoy!”

And the redhead was right. Because it was a war. Things still weren’t over yet.

Draco didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to lose you, but you were gone. Now he  _ had  _ to survive, to fulfill your request. Your fucking death request. Why hadn’t he come sooner? Why hadn’t he stopped you? Why hadn’t he saved you?

He couldn’t think about any of that with a war still waging in front of him.

A single nod was sent to Weasley. It would never make up for the years of verbal abuse, but there wasn’t time to think of remedies or apologies. He just had to survive.

Blocking a spell, he turned to look at you a final time, nearly becoming sick at the sight of the snake already curling around your limp body.


	5. New Beginnings

_ Ginger flashed in his periphery before a twin—Merlin only knows which—pushed him behind the pile of rubble. “Move, Malfoy!” _

_ And the redhead was right. Because it was a war. Things still weren’t over yet. _

_ Draco didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to lose you, but you were gone. Now he had to survive, to fulfill your request. Your fucking death request. Why hadn’t he come sooner? Why hadn’t he stopped you? Why hadn’t he saved you? _

_ He couldn’t think about any of that with a war still waging in front of him. _

_ A single nod was sent to Weasley. It would never make up for the years of verbal abuse, but there wasn’t time to think of remedies or apologies. He just had to survive. _

_ Blocking a spell, he turned to look at you a final time, nearly becoming sick at the sight of the snake already curling around your limp body. _

* * *

He bolted upright, panting, heart pounding, eyes scouring the room. Bookshelf. Door. Nightstand. Lamp. Bedposts. Duvet—

Safe. He was safe.

Falling back against the sheets, he took a deep breath, steadying the pace of the heart rattling in his chest.

It was always the same fucking dream. The one that sent terror through his chest, a blinding fear that he hadn’t made it in time to save you. But he did. You were alive. You were okay. He hadn’t lost you. It was all a dream.

He hadn’t saved you that day. More so, you’d saved him, swooshing in like a hurricane, brandishing him with the strength he needed to survive. He’d froze watching the wall crumble around you, heart stuttering in his chest similar to the way it trembled when he woke from the nightmares. The impact had crushed your legs, splintering the bones with a nauseating crunch. Weasley managed to help free you, most likely feeling indebted to your foolish act of heroism. Regardless, he shoved you—screaming like bloody murder—into Draco’s arms, urging you both down the stairs toward somewhere private, somewhere you could hide out until the worst had passed and Pomfrey could help you.

He felt sick watching you writhe in his arms, pain shooting through your body. You couldn’t distinguish one wave from the next, white hot and electric in your blood. His stomach churned thinking about it. Maybe it would be better not to, though the images playing in his subconscious seemed to plague him all hours of the night regardless.

Instead of musing on it, he slipped a pair of faux-dragonhide slippers over his barely warm feet and swept down the hall.

His life had remained relatively routine since the war. Every morning, he woke to an empty bed and shuffled down to the kitchen to procure a cup of tea. There was always one under a stasis charm on the counter waiting for him, steam rolling lazily from the rim. Then, he set up in the study for the morning. It was always dark when he began working, the light barely trickling into the house yet from the slowly rising sun. However, he preferred the soft light, less harsh on his eyes than the afternoon sun. It would glare across his paperwork, winking against his mug, practically blinding him to the work he so desperately desired to get done.

But it was all for distraction, and he knew that.

The notebook on his desk was taunting him, teasing, clawing at his consciousness since the moment he’d set it there four months prior.

He’d hidden the two of you into a forgotten part of the castle, tucked from view and thought. Once he’d settled you as best as he could, casting a few cushioning charms on the hard ground, he cast a few charms to conceal your groans from the outside world. You’d been in so much pain. He could see it; your eyes squinted, breathing shallow as your fingers clenched at your robes. He wished he could fix it, wished he’d accepted the offer to be taught basic healing charms by Pomfrey. But he hadn’t. You suffered on.

The burning in your legs was so intense, aches struggling up your ribcage as the adrenaline from battle wore off. Your hands shook, shoulders trembling. It was impossible to think your body could endure so much pain and survive. You’d whispered that to him between ragged breaths, tears streaming from your eyes with every accidental shift.

“You’ll be okay. Everything’s going to be okay,” he whispered back. You both knew that was a lie. People were dying on the other side of the wooden door, lives ending, loves lost. Maybe you’d survive this, but were you strong enough to face the aftermath of the war, whatever that would be? Were  _ any  _ of you?

“I want you to tell your story,” you groaned, reaching for his hand.

“What?”

You took a shuddering breath. The periphery of your vision growing hazy, splotchy, and you tried not to panic, but your breath was still ragged and your legs were still throbbing.

“Tell your story. You’ll find it in the library. I know you’ll know it when you see it. Just… please?” Your head was starting to slump, eyes fluttering. “I want… I want you to tell it… it needs to be written… Draco…”

He guarded you for hours, for what felt like eternity, hoping to Merlin that things would be okay. His legs itched to go to the library, to find what you wanted him to find, but he stayed. He stayed for you.

What he’d found hours and eternities later had been a notebook, inky black and devoid of dust, new as could be yet timeless.

The first page was an inscription:

> I’ve been letting you chase me through these shelves for years, but it’s time to stop running. You’ve learned enough, Draco. I’m sure of it. I’ve given everything to you I can to help you succeed in this world. You know what you need to do now. Write.

After four months, he had yet to fulfill the promise that was never officially made.

You hardly seemed upset by that, curled in the private library down the hall scratching away at loose scraps of parchment. Perhaps it was the years you spent reading stories of healing and hope, even the unpleasant tales rife with education. You possessed an unearthly drive to chronicle your experiences, write them out for the future generations. It stemmed from the hope that one day, like the books and essays you so cherished, your words would prevent one more person from joining the next set of dark forces to come upon the world. Saving even one person would be worth the strife it took to relive the horrors the last year had provided.

But Draco wasn’t like you. Saving people wasn’t his thing. Comfort was. Stability was. And nothing could possibly be more unstable than the preceding years of his life.

Yet your words nagged at his gut, the pleading look in your eyes before you fainted. He hadn’t been able to help that version of you, even if it wasn’t as severe as his psyche seemed to recall it, but he wondered if his words  _ now  _ could help you. Maybe they could reassure you of whatever worries made you hesitate before leaning in to hug him, made you chew your bottom lip like taffy before daring to take a book from his hand. There was something lurking at the back of your mind, and though he hadn’t been able to place what it was yet, that didn’t mean he wanted it to continue without remedy.

It took three more nights before the dreams—nightmares—of your begging, screaming figure before he reluctantly reached for the book.

He hesitated. The pages were a pristine cream, new and unblemished. It seemed to be the only thing that survived the war that way. The thought ricocheted through his brain; it was rather poetic.

As soon as his quill touched the page, his hand moved in a frenzy. It would be hours before he stopped.

* * *

He didn’t realize it that night, but you held him a little closer than usual, kissed his hand a little longer, snuggled in a little tighter.

Although he wouldn’t officially mention it for several more weeks, you’d seen him through the crack in the doorway while passing by that afternoon. You knew he’d been writing. And that was enough for you to know that you’d succeeded in everything you’d hoped to accomplish.

He’d known so little, but he’d learned so much.

For the first, but certainly not last, time in his life, someone had truly  _ taught  _ Draco Malfoy to see the world. And that someone happened to be you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left to go! I hope everyone's enjoying it! :)


	6. Epilogue

Draco smoothed the front of his cardigan and adjusted his ring, twirling it once, twice, thrice around his finger for good luck. You were watching him from the doorway, an amused smile twitching on your lips.

“Don’t be nervous. You’ll do great.”

He gave you a halfhearted grimace through the mirror. Hopefully things would go well, but the ache in his gut wouldn’t let him believe it _could_ go well. The headline from the morning’s paper still skittered through his brain. _Ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy Unveils War Novel on Motives: An Exposé by Rita Skeeter._

You reached forward to squeeze his arm, chase away the worries that danced in his mind. “Everything will be great. I just know it.”

He managed to give you a real smile that time, hand reaching up to meet your own.

You liked to tell people Draco had taken to writing “like a duck to water,” but that hadn’t been the case at all. The stories seemed to pull him under, drowning him in the clamber to escape from his soul. Really, they wrote themselves. Draco just listened to what they wanted him to say. He could only hope that he would be able to explain it, coherently make sense of his intentions in some capacity.

Thankfully, _The Quibbler_ was sending someone relatively relaxed to do the interview. At least, that’s what the owl had claimed a few days prior when they reached out. He was a bit choosey with his interviews, though not increasingly so because few deigned to write genuine reviews about his novels. Thankfully Luna’s paper was relatively unbiased against him, so there was that. He hoped whoever he was meeting—Argon? Adergon? He couldn’t recall—wouldn’t make things too difficult.

He felt your lips graze his cheek, pulling him from his thoughts. “You’ll do great, darling. And I’ll be here with lunch when you get back.”

Your unwavering support always shattered any fear he possessed.

* * *

They met at a coffee shop, informal but cozy, for the interview. Draco sipped on some green tea as he waited, idly watching the people meandering along the shop windows across the street.

It was a quaint weekend morning; it made him think of waking up early to play quidditch in the yard before breakfast when he was a child. He felt like he’d been transported worlds away from whoever that little boy had been. Maybe that was for the best.

When the shop’s bell dinged, Draco started, retracting his hand from his cup as a man reached out to shake.

“Draco Malfoy?” Draco nodded, inwardly chuckling at the man’s politeness in feigning ignorance on who Draco was. His face has been printed in enough papers, no one would ever be able to forget post-war Draco in all his gaunt, exhausted glory. The man carried on regardless. “Adeon Heinrik. Nice to meet you.”

Draco’s smile was stiff, but it always was with strangers. Polite formality had been ingrained in him since birth; using it nowadays always made him uncomfortable, a muscle memory he didn’t care for.

Adeon settled into the chair opposite him, charming a quill like he’d seen Skeeter do all those years ago. Perhaps this was payback for all the times he’d subtly suggested Potter was up to more antics to get the paparazzi on his tail. Now Draco understood the discomfort of interviews.

Additionally, a recording device was placed on the edge of the table, charmed to catch their conversation and store it for later broadcasting. Radio interviews had become quite the literary rage; how could _The Quibbler_ resist expanding their reporting style?

Adeon adjusted his tie, clearing his throat subtly. “This is _The Quibbler_ Book Talks and I’m Adeon Heinrik here today to discuss Draco Malfoy’s latest work. So, Mr. Malfoy, this article will be focusing primarily on your newest work, _Snow on Peacock Street,_ a war memoir on your experiences with Voldemort, as well as the tale of your rocky relationship with your current wife.” Draco nodded, and Adeon continued. “However, before we discuss your newest novel, I’d like to take a look at your other works. _Dark Absolute_ and _Scaled Terror_ were released seven and three years ago respectively. Two Young Adult themed works, you delve into the fictive worlds of Algernon and Evelyn where the protagonists face incredible choices between family, faith, and country. You also released a collection of essays titled _The Purpose of Family_ , which was later synthesized into a children’s picture book four years ago. Children, teens, you’ve focused on a young audience up until recently. What’s your motivation for writing a war memoir _now_ , for honing in on an adult audience?”

Draco licked his lips, fiddling with his ring under the table. “Well, Mr. Heinrik, the truth of the matter is that the children weren’t there.” Adeon’s eyes flickered with confusion, but Draco carried on, hoping his point would make sense. “Unlike the children now that have a bit of a reprieve, I was a child of the war. Although it was clearly the wrong side, it was a necessary burden that many of my peers faced as well. We had been raised on tradition and weren’t willing to sacrifice our families at any cost. However, the children, they aren’t having to make choices like that at present. My works remain fictional because I can’t undo _my_ past, but I can place the readers into similar morally unsteady situations. Perhaps they can be more prepared to make their own choices after facing the situations in my novels.”

Adeon sat forward in his seat, eyes glued to Draco like a siren attempting to lure words from his lips. Draco took a sip of tea, trying to hide the nervousness he felt as Adeon stepped in with the next question. “That’s an excellent point. But your newest work is obviously a war novel. Why do you feel _now_ is the right time to publish it? Have things settled enough that it’s the right time to critique the situation from both sides?”

Oh dear. “No,” he answered with a cool wave of his hand. Or, as cool as he could manage with the worry jittering through his nerves. He could feel it coming, the twisted commentary about his choices already lapping at his feet. “Truthfully, there will never be a ‘right time’ to talk about the war. No matter how much time passes, my generation will never be untainted by those experiences. My intention isn’t to advocate that my side was better, nor to paint myself as some perfectly _good_ person. It’s merely to give an examination of the other side, to provide some humanity to the actions that occurred.”

“Provide some humanity, what do you mean by that?”

“Well,” he twisted his ring under the table, “there’s certainly a lot more nuance to human experience than the black-and-white exhibited in most modern war talks. In discussing the experiences I had, perhaps it can provide some humanity and understanding for those who have had or _will_ have similar experiences. Of course, the Death Eaters’ actions— _my_ actions—were reprehensible. Our choices should not be absolved based on a single text. Yet, the burden of choice is never easy, and being raised to take the wrong side or face death is a situation as old as time itself. Perhaps the reasoning behind my actions and others will help those who face similar situations again someday.”

Adeon nodded, glancing down at his notes. “I’m currently with Mr. Draco Malfoy as we discuss his latest work, _Snow on Peacock Street_. The war novel, published in late November, has received praise from Philanthropist Harry Potter as well as Minister of Magic Hermione Granger. However, less-than-stellar reviews have come from Head Auror Ronald Weasley.” He looked up from his notes. “Let’s discuss that for a moment. Any ideas on why the Head Auror dislikes your latest work?”

Draco chuckled, running his thumb along the edge of his teacup. “I’m afraid not everyone can have excellent taste in books.”

Adeon laughed, and Draco joined him. Something on the recorder flashed red before returning to green. He hoped it hadn’t broken. Adeon seemed unbothered.

“So is that all it is? He merely has poor taste while Minister Granger and Mr. Potter possess better taste?”

The thought put a grin on his face before he could really stop it. “It’s certainly a nice way of putting it.” Slowly, the smile dropped from his face. He twirled his ring again. Once. Twice. Thrice. “I suppose it’s more to do with our past and upbringing. Although I’m flattered Potter and Granger enjoy my work, I’m afraid I’m rather undeserving of their praise.”

“I see,” Adeon nodded, sensing Draco’s discomfort. “Let’s talk about your work itself for a moment. Your Young Adult novels have rather intense titles, I’m sure reflecting the nature of the work. Yet your newest novel is titled _Snow on Peacock Street_. It seems a bit lighthearted for a war story.”

“Partially because it isn’t. At least, not in the beginning. When I was a child, we had these marvelous peacocks. Bright and beautiful. They went to Naghini during the war, though; the last bit of brightness sucked out of the Manor. It seemed a fitting reminder of what once was, to describe it as ‘Peacock Street.’ Though, it also reflects my relationship with (Y/n).” 

“Your relationship with (Y/n)? In what way is that?”

“She’s…” He looked for the right word. The English vocabulary didn’t seem to have a word spectacular enough for you. “She was a lightness then. She’s a lightness now, too. But especially then. It felt like the world was so hopeless and dark. And then she showed up with a book and changed my life. I couldn’t have survived without her.”

Adeon was smiling. Maybe his interview hadn’t gone so poorly after all.

“And she’s written a book as well, hasn’t she?”

“Yes! Yes,” he beamed, thinking of the smile on your face when you came home with the first printed copy. “Her memoir _Forgotten Burns and Papercuts_ will be available for sale next month. It’s truly marvelous; I highly recommend reading it.”

“I’m sure you’re a bit biased in that regard, but I’ll take your word for it.” Adeon glanced back down at his notes. “Alright, we’re almost out of time for today. Would you mind reading a little excerpt from _Snow on Peacock Street_ to close us off?”

“Of course, I’d love to,” Draco said, taking the marked book Adeon passed to him. It was only a few pages in, but hopefully it would be compelling enough to attract a few readers.

He cleared his throat, ring glinting in the light as he pressed the pages down to read.

> _They told me they loved me. But what really_ is _love without death? What’s love without suffering and fear and hunger? How do you find love amongst everything? You can’t. It’s impossible. It may come in fleeting fragments, in silvery flutters like the faint trace of a Patronus. Yet you never_ truly _find it until there’s nothing else in the way. When stripped bare before the masses, you find love._
> 
> _Seldom is it expressed in gifts or other material, flowery things. It rubs you raw, claws at your throat, tears you limb from limb. Love is being faced with death and finding something worth living for. It’s the cold blooded fear before a battle, the ripped cry of the lonely, the desperation of a dying man. Contentment breeds complacency. But fear breeds love. I suppose that’s how I found her then. How I loved her amongst a darkness so pungent it rotted the soul and slaughtered person after person with it._
> 
> _I didn’t love her in an all-consuming fury, not until the world was dark and she was there, blinding, brilliant, stinging against my fingertips like fresh fallen snow, to remind me that my life couldn’t be over yet._
> 
> _I would learn many things from her, but_ this _, love roaring against the dying embers of life, would be her ultimate teaching. It showed me more about the world than I could possibly describe, but in this text, I’ll attempt to impart that knowledge on you._

He glanced back up at Adeon, who barely looked composed as he shuffled in his seat, glanced down at his notes.

“That was Mr. Draco Malfoy reading an excerpt from his newest novel _Snow on Peacock Street_ , available through Wizz Hard Books publishing company. Mr. Malfoy, thank you for joining me today.”

“Thank you for having me,” he nodded.

“That will conclude this week’s edition of _The Quibbler_ Book Talks. I’m Adeon Heinrik, and I’ll see you next week when we join…”

* * *

The article had been a hit. His work had been rather well reviewed all things considered.

Yours had done even better. Hermione Granger had even written to you personally with compliments. Though, it seemed only fitting as the torture scenes hit a bit close to home.

Draco had nearly retched proofing those scenes. You’d had to hold him close for hours, reminding him that he _didn’t_ know, that things had ended up okay. The two of you had made it out alive. He’d twisted his ring around his finger. Once. Twice. Thrice. You were alive. Things were okay.

Things were better than okay.

Headmistress McGonagall had agreed to let the two of you deliver your books to the library for students to read. Of course, the conditions required that you come during Winter Holiday when the students wouldn’t be distracted by your arrival, but that made things all the better.

Two copies, both as pristine and polished as ever, were handed to Madam Pince. She thanked the both of you, moving to put them on the proper shelves.

Rather than leave, you pulled Draco toward the back corner of the library, smiles curling on both of your faces.

It felt like ages since the two of you had seen the dusty shelves where you’d spent years playing chase amongst the covers. Names familiar and foreign dominated the shelves, mostly old, handwritten collections that would seldom be read. Only the passionate—only people like _you_ —would pull them down to decipher the hurried texts, pulled straight from the soul of the authors.

Draco pulled his hand away from yours, tracing the cover of the worn, black notebook. It was no longer pristine, the interior scribbled and smeared with ink and the cover well worn with use. His novel, the original. It had been primarily completed after his first year of writing it, but he hadn’t been ready then to publish it, to even _consider_ publishing it. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe he’d printed the words, had them reproduced. But he needed it. He wanted it.

Your hands traced over a set of carefully bound parchments. Your first draft, scratched out, written in the margins, revised. The raw, the original. Lines messy with emotion, edges crinkled with touch.

You looked up at the shelves. It had all begun with those shelves, with those books. Stories of ancient wizards and desperate souls. And, oh, how your lives found ways to mirror those stories, mimic the past.

Draco pushed two books apart, making space on the shelves. Delicately, you placed your set of parchments there, Draco’s notebook following.

Someone else could find your stories one day, remember your lives in all their messy, unpolished glory. But in the meantime, they’d grow dust waiting for another soul to remember, to wonder, to learn. The words would wait for a soul like yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed. You can also find me over on [Tumblr](https://silentexplorer18.tumblr.com/) if you'd like! :)

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me over on [Tumblr](https://silentexplorer18.tumblr.com/) if you'd like!


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